


i've come a long way, my dear, just to have you near

by myriddin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Military, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 02:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11911290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriddin/pseuds/myriddin
Summary: WWII Dicksa: RAF pilot Dickon Tarly returns to a liberated Paris to reunite with the woman who helped save his life (and stole his heart).





	i've come a long way, my dear, just to have you near

RAF Flight Lieutenant Dickon Tarly scanned the room, squinting at the hazy smoke filling the space. The Americans had certainly been generous with the cigarettes. Food shortages were still prevalent throughout most of France despite the liberation, but candy bars and cigarettes were as good a currency as any for the American soldiers mingling on furlough with their fellow Allies.

A pair of drunk Australians caterwauling out an off-key rendition of ‘Beer, Beer, Beer’, a group in the corner chatting in Belgian-accented French over a card game, and a pair of Dutchmen bickering over something in a magazine, all filled his ears in a rich medley of camaraderie and relief. The war was not yet over, but the tides were turning, and the spark of hope that had ignited in the midst of a miserable winter had been fanned into a flame sweeping over the Continent.

Satisfied that the club’s loathsome proprietor wasn’t anywhere in sight, he began to surreptitiously make his way through the crowd. Still, his lip curled with distaste at the mere thought of Baelish. Disgusted as he had been to witness the disturbing way the man leered over his ward, his dislike for Baelish stemmed from more than his inappropriate guardianship. Unlike his last foray into Paris, Dickon could now walk the streets without being apprehended by the Gestapo, making it infinitely easier to do something about his suspicions of Baelish collaborating with the Nazis.

Pushing the matter of Baelish aside, an eager anticipation thrummed through him the closer he drew to his destination, drawing closer to Alayne with every step he took.

_Alayne…_

It was so good to see her again. The quiet intimacy they had shared in those few weeks had been wonderful beyond compare, but their time had been sheltered and limited, a product of him hiding in fear for his life. Tonight had been the first time he’d ever seen her on stage, and God save him, she had been ethereal. The low, sweet croon of her voice had filled every empty space being apart from her had left inside him, reminiscent of every time he woke from a nightmare while in hiding and Alayne coaxed him to lay his head in her lap, running her fingers through his hair and softly singing until he found sleep again.

Dickon Tarly had developed quite the knack for survival over the war: first making it through the Blitz and the Battle for Britain, then another two years of successful flights before being shot down over Nazi-occupied France. He had somehow escaped internal injury, therefore not only still breathing but able to move of his own volition when the French Resistance found him. He healed up as they moved him through the network, plans slowly coming together to smuggle him and several other downed pilots out of the country. Soon enough, he came under the care of a chanteuse and Resistance member by the name of Alayne Stone.

Alayne was beautiful, sweet, and kind, her courtesy hiding the steel in her spine and cunning in her eyes from anyone so foolish as to not look close enough (clever, strong, brave). He was enthralled by her completely, through the late nights and early mornings they spent in one another’s company.

Her dressing room in the back of the club was adjoining to a small set of apartments her manager and guardian, Baelish, had arranged for her, and it was in the crawlspace beneath the floor that she hid him whenever the man came by on his twice-daily visits, once in the early hours of the morning to praise that night’s performance, another in the late afternoon to escort her to dinner before the club opened. Dickon was left to glare at the lecher through a knot in the floorboards whenever he leaned too close or let his hand linger too long on Alayne’s shoulder. He’d been mollified to learn she at least had locks on her doors.

As grateful as he was to them, he had at first been outraged on her behalf that the Resistance would leave her alone and unchaperoned with a foreign male stranger, Ally or not. Alayne had coolly pointed out that the point of their acquaintance was for him to never been seen, and that her being a widowed entertainer did more for her reputation in certain circles than he ever could. Dickon was left abashed and outraged all over again (though this time at certain social mores), but he must have been appropriately sheepish as she warmed to him again shortly after.  

They took most of their meals together, they read together, they played cards and checkers, Alayne guided him through the steps of several dances beyond the simple waltz he knew, and she even showed him the basics of needlepoint and embroidery as she enhanced the plain dresses available in the restricted market to make them performance-ready.

What he liked best was the rare times when she would sing, few and far between as she needed to rest her voice for the evenings, but the rarity only made the memories more precious.

The quiet, peaceful companionship made him wistful for a time before all hope of Sam being the son their father wanted was gone, when Dickon was still the youngest and the spare, not the heir apparent. Before his father dominated every aspect of his life, he was his mother’s babe, spoiled and coddled as the last she could safely carry. Back then, he toddled after her every step and everything she did, from needlework to music to chores, was the most fascinating thing in the world.

That all ended when it was expected that he become solely his father’s son, sport and hunting and politics replacing everything that did not fit into Randyll Tarly’s definition of manhood. Being around Alayne brought back to life the memories he had abashedly tucked in the back of his mind. More than once, he indulged the fantasy of playing the grand piano in his mother’s parlor, more talented than he could truly be after his years away from the instrument as he accompanied Alayne’s melodious song.

She made him laugh, she made him smile, she helped him find peace of mind, was it truly any surprise that he fell as deeply as he did?

As was the fate of most good things during times of war, their time came to an end, the Resistance successfully smuggling Dickon out of the country. He returned to the war, but Alayne was never far from his mind.

Now, nervous excitement thrummed through him as he made his way down the hallway in the back of the club, his heart pounding when he finally came to her door. He knocked once, twice, waiting for a long moment and growing concerned when he received no answer. Deciding he would rather apologize later than not act, he pushed the door open, stopping in his tracks almost immediately. His heart dropped as he took in the sight of Alayne wrapped around a dark-haired man.

He must have made some sound because Alayne’s eyes flew open, locking onto him. Shock, confusion, and joy crossed her face as she slowly pulled away from the other man, taking a few tentative steps toward him. “Dickon, you’re alright,” she breathed softly. “You came back…”

“Of course,” he replied, equally as sotto voce, desperately resisting his urge to look at the face of the stranger beside her. “I did promise.”

“You did,” she confirmed, staring at him intensely for a long moment. Her limpid eyes viscerally flashed him back to the night before his departure, as she was looking at him with the same potency in her gaze she had when he stood bare before her for the first time.

A pang went through him as she reached for the other man and tugged him forward, revealing him to be a rugged-looking fellow wearing the uniform of a Royal Marine and the insignia of a Lieutenant. He frowned at Dickon, resting a protective hand on the small of Alayne’s back. Alayne gave him a fond look in response and just when Dickon thought he would have to storm out of the room before he lost his composure, Alayne turned that affectionate gaze on him.

“Dickon, I want you to meet my brother, Jon. Jon, this is Dickon Tarly.”

“Lieutenant.”

“A pleasure, Flight Lieutenant.” Jon’s handshake was strong and firm, his voice brusque and Northern. He’d heard hints of the same accent from Alayne. Her French was excellent but not flawless, but Melessa Florent was a native speaker, and Dickon had detected the difference. Still, looking from one face to another, he saw little resemblance between them, and catching the guarded glances between them only heightened his suspicions.

“Alayne,” he said plaintively, his heart too sore to deal with any sort of deception. Alayne reached out, taking his hand, and hesitated for just a moment before she began to speak.

++

He stared at her stupidly for a long moment, the only coherent thing to come from his mouth being, “My lady.”

“Viscount Tarly.”

He blinked. “You knew?”

“I suspected. Jon confirmed it. He and Samwell were friends at university.”

It warmed his heart to know that Sam had made a friend. He locked his lips, testing out the syllables of the new name he’d been given. “Sansa.”

“Yes,” she replied softly. “Is that alright?”

“Of course.” He shifted closer. “Alayne Stone, Sansa Stark, whoever you are, your heart is the same. I love you.” The daughter of a duke…marriage would be so much easier now. He had been planning to fight his father every step of the way, was ready to be disinherited if it meant that he and Alayne would be together, but now they should get at least grudging acceptance.

A heartbeat passed, and they moved as one, coming together to kiss as if their lives depended on it. Clothes were quickly peeled away, the couple falling into the bed with an urgency so unlike the slow tenderness of their first time (though no less satisfying).

She reached for him, their fingers entwining, as she gasped and shuddered beneath him, back arching as she crested with a sharp cry of his name. He wiped his mouth on the corner of his uniform shirt as she gathered her breath, turned their joined hands to press a kiss to her palm. Sansa’s eyes fluttered open in response, lips curving into a shy, languid smile.

“Jon wants to send me home as soon as possible,” she softly informed him. “He said Father’s name has been cleared…that our estates have been restored to our brother.” She caressed his bicep. “When this is over, will you come home to me?”

“As best I can. I would be a horrible husband if I didn’t.”

“Husband?”

“Marry me? Tonight, tomorrow, before we have to part again. Your brother can stand as witness.”

The enthusiastic kiss he received in reply was all the answer he needed.


End file.
